


Let Us Blow Your Minds

by ruethereal



Series: VIP Only [3]
Category: Big Bang (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-10
Updated: 2012-08-10
Packaged: 2017-11-11 21:03:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 10,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/482868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruethereal/pseuds/ruethereal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompted ficlets from the <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/481214/chapters/836741">Welcome to Our World</a> universe</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. with Trinkets and Secret Promises

“I really need to stop calling you my wife.”

Jiyong unsticks his cheek from the warm and brightly illuminated glass case to frown up at the older man.

“What are you talking about?” he grumbles, absently wiping the breath fog and face print he’d left on the otherwise clean surface—though he’s doing it more so he can resume staring at the glittering contents. “You know you love me.”

Seunghyun tries in vain to yank Jiyong up by his collar. Shopping for couple rings is one thing. Getting on your knees to drool over obnoxious, flamboyant—not to mention overpriced—couple rings is another thing entirely. It doesn’t change the very embarrassing fact that, not only are they somehow shopping for couple rings, but Jiyong has indeed been drooling over obnoxious, flamboyant, overpriced couple rings.

“I’m not arguing that point,” Seunghyun says, moving his hold to Jiyong’s hair instead. “Which makes me think I’m even more insane than I previously thought.”

To conceal the shiver brought upon by the older man’s tugging on his hair, Jiyong swats his hand away and finally stands, though not before donning the poutiest pout in the history of pout-dom.

“Hyung,” he wibbles, “you promised we would a week ago.”

Seunghyun’s eyebrow just twitches. And Jiyong drops the pretense, though not without a loud, defeated sigh and a long, last look into the glass case before leading the way out of the boutique.

“Why do you want them so badly anyway?” Seunghyun mutters, already sure he’ll regret asking when Jiyong stiffly jerks his arm away, Seunghyun’s elbow brushing his bicep accidentally.

At least Jiyong doesn’t go as far as ignoring him.

“We’re partners,” he says curtly. “It was supposed to be for team morale or some shit like that.”

It isn’t really the answer he expects, what with Jiyong’s insisting that they’re in love with each other. Still, Seunghyun decides this would be a bad time to point out that Jiyong knows nothing of sportsmanship, good or bad. Seunghyun slips his hand into Jiyong’s far smaller one. He expects to be brushed off again, but Jiyong just twines their fingers. Taking it as permission enough, Seunghyun proceeds to drag the younger man through the mall.

“Hyung—where—shit—wait—”

Seunghyun’s gasping by the time they reach the arcade, but he forestalls Jiyong’s panted questions of ‘Have you gone nuts?’ and ‘Think I’m your dog or something?’ and ‘Is that your exercise for this month?’ by dropping a few coins into the nearest knick-knack machine twice. Jiyong’s still swearing and berating him about ‘I go to the gym enough’ when Seunghyun pops open the plastic canister, snatches up the other man’s left hand, and slips the toy ring (a pair of sequined lips) onto his third finger.

Jiyong’s eyes go wide, crossing comically to stare at it. Then ever so slowly, his face explodes into violently pink cheeks and fully displayed teeth.

“I never took you for the romantic type, hyung.”

“I’m not.”

But he can’t make much of an argument on that point either, what with Jiyong gleefully obliging when he holds out the second canister, sliding the ring (a yellow dome with a smiley face painted on) onto Seunghyun’s finger as well—

“Happy now?”

“Mm-hm.”

—what with the pair of rings nestled in the red velvet box patiently sitting atop Jiyong’s dresser.


	2. with Sex and Death for Breakfast

“This is so unsanitary.”

Jiyong just hums into Seunghyun’s mouth, just tightens his legs around Seunghyun’s waist.

Seunghyun had woken up first this afternoon, starting their cleanup without the younger man. But when Jiyong finally stumbled into their spare bedroom-turned-bloody chamber, one hand buried in his flyaway hair and the other smothering a huge yawn, it was to find Seunghyun wearing only boxers and combat boots and blood smeared across his torso and up his forearms.

He doesn’t know if he should blame the LSD from the previous night, but the gory image of the older man—there was even blood on his forehead and in his hair, probably from sulking about working solo—was somehow so bestial and erotic, Jiyong couldn’t help clambering onto the industrial freezer and wrangling Seunghyun to him, already hard and needy in his pajamas.

And despite his germaphobic protests, Seunghyun can’t help reacting to Jiyong’s own feral response, even if it means leaving rusty handprints in the silk material at the smaller man’s shoulders and thighs, on the swell of his cheeks and the gentle slope of his milky pale neck.

“Fuck you smell so good right now,” Jiyong growls from deep in his belly, burrowing his nails into Seunghyun’s shoulder blades and bucking his hips impatiently.

“I smell like dirty money,” Seunghyun half-laughs, half-groans, meanwhile yanking Jiyong’s ruined pajama bottoms off his bony hips and ass.

“The fuck—!”

Seunghyun jerks away as far as Jiyong’s legs allow, swiping his mouth with his palm and finding a stripe of fresh blood.

“You fucking—”

“Sorry.”

Except Jiyong isn’t all that sorry for biting a chunk out of the other man’s bottom lip, simply dragging his nails down Seunghyun’s chest, watching as the tacky, caked blood gives way to angry, pink welts.

“Fucking animal,” Seunghyun hisses, picking up where he left off and grasping Jiyong’s leaking cock—perhaps a bit too hard, going by the younger man’s grunted ‘Shit, hyung.’

But Jiyong makes no further complaints, just returns the favor by shucking off Seunghyun’s soaked and tented boxers, spitting into his palm before gripping the older man’s prick and using short, rough tugs instead of the adoring caresses he’d adopted lately. Still, it doesn’t take long, the both of them testing each other’s and their own thresholds for pain, fingers too dry and too tight, teeth sinking into any exposed bit of flesh whether it’s covered in blood or not, their own or not, and they’re coming together onto Jiyong’s thighs and Seunghyun’s boots.

“Fuck…”

“Yeah.”

Seunghyun lifts his forehead from Jiyong’s shoulder, wondering when the younger man’s pajama top had been torn off and by whom. And now seems like the proper time for affection, so Jiyong presses a quick, dry kiss above one of Seunghyun’s eyes.

“Race you to the bathtub.”


	3. with Earthly Delights and Pillow-Biting

This wouldn’t be the first time Jiyong’s thought himself the luckiest man in the universe—all those eights in his birth date, he fucking better be. He’d thought himself lucky to have Seunghyun in his life. But _two_ Seunghyuns? Maybe there is a God. Or maybe Jiyong should start calling himself ‘God’ (especially since he knows Seunghyun— _his_ Seunghyun—would hate it).

Besides, the way they’re both lavishing him with kisses and touches, he may as well be divine.

It’s almost stifling, almost uncomfortable, having bodies on either side of him. But the lip prints branded across his collarbone and the teeth indents around his nipple, not to mention the two mismatched hands vying for his prick, more than—much much more than—make up for it.

Jiyong wouldn’t mind just lying there being worshipped by these two beautiful men—two fucking delicious Seunghyuns—but God is good to His meek and faithful servants (though, going by the filthiness of the men’s moaned and growled exaltations, they’re far from meek).

‘Ah, there you are,’ he thinks, fingers of his right hand wrapping around the familiar thick, satiny cock of _his_ Seunghyun. But what he gets is a groaned ‘oh, fuck, yes’ in his left ear, his other hand finding the foreign erection of the new, smaller Seunghyun.

And this is definitely uncomfortable—no, more like awkward—when Little Seunghyun crashes his mouth to Jiyong’s only to have Big Seunghyun’s hand whip away from between Jiyong’s legs and into Little Seunghyun’s face, shoving it away so Big Seunghyun can kiss him instead.

“What the f—!”

And Big Seunghyun grunts into Jiyong’s mouth, bites Jiyong’s tongue a bit too hard, as it turns out, because Little Seunghyun took the liberty of biting Big Seunghyun’s hand.

Make that awkward and confusing.

“Now, now, boys,” Jiyong says, forcing a chuckle and releasing both their cocks to hold his hands up by his head in a gesture of peacemaking. “Let’s play nice.”

But with the way they’re glaring at each other across Jiyong, playing nice seems to be the farthest thing from their minds. And this may be a bad time for Jiyong to wonder how they would be together—two hot-headed and sex-crazed Seunghyuns—more so if they would let him watch to his heart’s content, but at least Jiyong’s coherent enough to not risk propositioning them.

Time for God to work in His mysterious ways.

But there are no mysteries when Jiyong rolls over and straddles Little Seunghyun’s thighs, favoring the stranger with a small smile before settling between his legs and lowers his face, mouth brushing the head of Little Seunghyun’s cock when he murmurs,

“Come here, Seung-honey.”

 _His_ Seunghyun, whom he stares at through his lashes, whom he reaches for with an upturned palm as if another man’s precome isn’t presently coating his bottom lip.

The mystery’s in Big Seunghyun’s face, the older man’s expression more inscrutable than usual because the key fact that, yes, Jiyong is about to blow Little Seunghyun hasn’t eluded him. But when Jiyong’s eyes grow demanding, when his fingers twitch impatiently, Seunghyun finally complies, lacing their fingers and letting Jiyong tug him upright.

“I want this,” Jiyong says, low and clear, freeing his hand to grasp _his_ Seunghyun’s cock even while Little Seunghyun’s continues to bob against his chin. “I want you. Okay?”

And to reassure him, Jiyong scoots his knees a bit so his ass is hoisted into the air in offering. And he knows from the way Big Seunghyun’s eyes narrow dangerously, that Jiyong’s won him over—a fact set in stone tablets when he positions himself behind Jiyong.

But it’s even more confusing, even more overwhelming when, the same moment Jiyong slides his lips over the crown of Little Seunghyun’s cock, Big Seunghyun slides both his thumbs between Jiyong’s ass cheeks, parting them to reveal the not-so-forbidden fruit there. And when Jiyong curls his tongue around the base of Little Seunghyun’s cock, Big Seunghyun dips the tips of both thumbs, the tip of his tongue into his ready and eager hole.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, so good, oh fuck…”

Jiyong can’t tell whose mantra it is: the man far above him sucking on his fingers, or the man behind him burying his tongue in his ass. Or maybe he’s just shouting it in his own head. Or maybe they’re all chanting it together as a part of their lusty, carnal ceremony.

Jiyong can’t tell if his head is spinning from Little Seunghyun’s salty precome invading his mouth, Little Seunghyun’s little hand fisting possessively in his hair, or from Big Seunghyun’s forefingers thrusting and scissoring frenetically, Big Seunghyun’s rhythmic rolling of each of his balls between his lips.

He pulls off of Little Seunghyun’s prick, trailing spit and precome, to gasp,

“Just fuck me now, damn it.”

He can’t tell which of them moans their approval at his shameless begging. Probably all of them.

As a simple courtesy, Jiyong doesn’t attempt to resume the devouring of Little Seunghyun’s cock when the head of Big Seunghyun’s cock nudges at his entrance. He settles for squeezing, stroking the erection sticking to his cheek and hair, settles for squeezing his eyes shut, as ready as he’ll ever be—which, as always, isn’t nearly ready enough—to be filled by the older man’s thick, heavy prick that no amount of tongue- or finger-fucking can prepare him for or even compare to. Big Seunghyun drives into him with one, slow, calculated fluid motion, and Jiyong’s sure that, if he hadn’t taken the necessary precautions, he would’ve bitten off Little Seunghyun’s Little Seunghyun by now.

“So—fucking—good—”

And this time, he’s dead sure he’s the one moaning. And he’s not one bit embarrassed.

And Jiyong gives himself a moment to indulge in the two Seunghyuns’ attention once more, Little Seunghyun kneading his tensed shoulders and suckling on his fingers, Big Seunghyun bracketing his hips and pounding into him with thrusts so full—withdrawing until it’s only the blunt head catching on the clenching ring of muscle, pushing back in until his perpetually bald and smooth pubic bone is grating on the cleft of his ass—Jiyong can’t figure out how he’s going so fast.

And any coherence he might’ve had is gone, proof being when he wrenches one of Big Seunghyun’s big hands from his waist and guides it to Little Seunghyun’s neglected prick. And Big Seunghyun must be too far gone to care either because together they pump Little Seunghyun even as Big Seunghyun fucks into him, even as Jiyong wraps shaking fingers around his own untouched cock.

And it really is a miracle—Jiyong swallowing down Little Seunghyun in time for him to come salty-sweet down his throat—Jiyong garbling a final ‘fuck, hyung, love’ as he spills himself onto his silk bedspread—Jiyong feeling Big Seunghyun plunging into him and staying there until he’s sure his body might runneth over.

Seunghyun— _his_ Seunghyun—collapses onto him, sweaty chest to sweaty back, sweaty forehead to sweaty nape, and he collapses onto new, smaller Seunghyun, sweaty chest to sweaty thigh, sweaty forehead to sweaty abdomen.

He must’ve been so blissed out, and it must only be a few hours later when Jiyong wakes up, curled against his Seunghyun’s side because he can’t for the life of him remember when they’d been arranged to go to sleep with Big Seunghyun in the middle. Though he’s sure it’s _his_ Seunghyun’s doing, trying to keep him away from Little Seunghyun—whom Jiyong can see over the steady rise and fall of Big Seunghyun’s chest.

“Go back to sleep.”

It takes far too much energy, but Jiyong manages to turn his face upward to meet his Seunghyun’s groggy, sex-muddled, satisfied gaze.

“Don’t wanna,” he rasps, feeling his bruised, swollen lips pull into an equally contented grin.

And welcomed without having to ask, Seunghyun—his very own gorgeous, adorable Seunghyun—rolls halfway onto him, forearms on either side of his head, and leans down to press warm, inviting, open-mouthed kisses to every inch of Jiyong’s face that isn’t his mouth. But when Jiyong tries to steal the older man’s lips for his own, Seunghyun dodges him.

“Hyung—”

“Not ‘til you brush your teeth,” he chides. “Kid might be dirty for all we know.”

Jiyong puffs a small laugh, clasping his hands loosely at the dip of the older man’s lower back. He doesn’t know what to make of the pillow being dragged out from under his head. That is, until he spots through his periphery said pillow being laid ever so gently on their still-slumbering companion’s face.

“And no more gay bars.”

Jiyong just rolls his eyes before sneaking a small nibble of Seunghyun’s chin.

“But you tried so much harder with him here,” he mumbles, noting the obvious flexing of the entire right half of Seunghyun’s—his Seunghyun’s—body. “Besides, how was I supposed to know there just happened to be another Seunghyun when I yelled ‘Take me home and fuck me, Seunghyun’?”

Seunghyun—his very own sexy, stingy Seunghyun—just silences him, finally letting their mouths meet ever so sweetly.

Other Seunghyun never gets to tell a living soul he’d been sucked off by a god.


	4. with Child-Bearing (sans MPreg 'Cause That Shit Is Double Combo Whack)

“You’re so romantic.”

Seunghyun doesn’t bother arguing since Jiyong is far too busy cooing and blubbering at the squirming animal held at arm’s-length and twitching his head in a surprisingly accurate imitation of said squirming animal’s twitching head.

Some time ago, they’d discussed adopting a dog—though their ‘discussions’ consisted primarily of Jiyong whining and swearing in turns, and of Seunghyun falling asleep and getting too deep in his cups to pay attention in turns. The older man didn’t give in even when, a few days ago, Jiyong offered to crawl around the condo on his hands and knees, barking and slobbering, so Seunghyun could experience the fulfillment and wonder of being a pet-owner. Even Jiyong’s trump card (crawling, barking, and slobbering _while naked_ ) didn’t have him convinced. Jiyong pranced about the condo in ridiculous states of undress all the time, after all.

No, it wasn’t until last night that Seunghyun mutely conceded.

He was about to drift off into dreamland when Jiyong rolled onto his side to wrap both his arms around one of Seunghyun’s impossibly tight and pressed his mouth to Seunghyun’s bare shoulder to murmur,

“I want to know what it feels like to be a dad. Don’t you?”

It was rather bad timing on the younger man’s part, but Seunghyun understood: just an hour before, they had to listen to one of their hits sobbing manically for her father before Seunghyun finally put her out of her misery. It had been their first mercy kill in quite some time.

So this morning, Seunghyun labored to wake in the actual _morning_ , sneak out of the condo to an animal breeder, and return before Jiyong could notice his absence. As he expected, the younger man was still tangled in Seunghyun’s sheets hours later when Seunghyun found him, the deceptively heavy hat box (huge silk bow included) cradled to his chest.

“You. Get up.”

It took shoving his heel against Jiyong’s ribs a dozen or so times, but at least it got the job done.

“Did you go shopping for me again?” the younger man croaked, automatically holding out his arms—though Seunghyun couldn’t help smiling fondly to see that Jiyong’s eyes were still resolutely closed.

“Something like that,” he murmured, sitting on the edge of the bed and resting the box in his lap.

And that’s when Jiyong heard the scuffling.

“That better not be another boa constrictor,” he said, sitting up and inching away slowly. “I don’t know what you were smoking when you decided death-by-snake-hug was the most practical way to go about things.”

Seunghyun just rolled his eyes before staring pointedly down at the bow-adorned box lid. Okay, so maybe the boa constrictor hadn’t been his brightest of ideas, what with the ten-foot serpent habitually disappearing into their beds and closets and cupboards only to scare their intestines into their throats when it was finally discovered. But it really had been the cleanest method to-date.

“Just open it already,” he ordered. “I don’t want to be the one to bury it if it ends up dying from a lack of oxygen just because you were scared of its box.”

This wasn’t going exactly to Seunghyun’s plan. Jiyong was supposed to eagerly yank at the ribbon, eagerly yank off the cover, and eagerly coddle the Shar-Pei puppy while eagerly making rude comments about the Shar-Pei puppy’s endearing appearance. Not look at the quivering hat box like it’s a grenade without its pin.

“Fine, fine.”

So Jiyong finally slid the box toward himself. For someone so terrified, he nevertheless wrapped his legs around it, holding it steady to undo the knot. And there’s a brief moment between Jiyong getting his fingers at the lip of the cover and Jiyong actually lifting it when he heard the whimpering, when he realized what the box contained—something Seunghyun only realized himself from the immediate, blinding smile ripping the younger man’s face in half.

“You didn’t…”

But Seunghyun had.

And with the box lid flung into some corner of the bedroom, with the wrinkly puppy wriggling in Jiyong’s hands, with the pleased flush heating his cheeks, Seunghyun wonders if maybe this is the paternal feeling Jiyong had mentioned. Because, even though they’ll surely argue over shit-cleaning duties in addition to body-scrapping duties, Seunghyun feels his heart swell in spite of Jiyong’s suddenly ignoring him in favor of imitating and garbling at their new pet (child?).

After all—

“You’re so romantic.”

—his plans rarely go wrong.


	5. with Sticky Fingers and Messy Faces

This wouldn’t be the first time Seunghyun’s thought Jiyong a bit dim. A sharp eye when it comes to the tiniest of details in how they dress for their twilight escapades, a sharp tongue when it comes to putting their more belligerent drunken companions in their places without provoking physical attacks, sure. But still, just sometimes just a tiny bit dim.

The younger man had, just minutes ago, stumbled upon a single piece of Dubble Bubble gum—stumbling upon being sticking his tiny hand between the couch cushions while griping about how bored he was—their excursion last night had, admittedly, been a lackluster and routine one, just alcohol and two too-easy women from a less respectable nightclub. And he’d taken it upon himself to gloat about his tiny treasure, waving the melted and linty piece of candy under Seunghyun’s nose before unwrapping it and popping it into his mouth.

Jiyong had, just minutes ago, stretched himself across the length of the sofa and dropped his head into Seunghyun’s lap, chewing the who-knows-how-old and who-knows-how-it-got-into-their-flat-in-the-first-place piece of gum obnoxiously loud. And just minutes ago, he’d bragged about his ninja-like bubble gum bubble-blowing skills. Seunghyun had only cast him a perfunctory glance down his nose.

But as soon as Seunghyun raised his eyes to the television once more, it was to the shrillest cries outside of lank-haired-mottled-skinned-drowned-women horror films.

“Jesus fucking Christ, please please _please_ don’t tell me it’s in my—it’s in my fucking hair, _oh my fucking God_ —”

Seunghyun lowers his gaze once more and finds that, yes, Jiyong’s ninja-like bubble gum bubble-blowing skills have led only to the Dubble Bubble landing in the younger man’s newly permed hair. Jiyong’s eyes are closed impossibly tight, as if to will away the offending piece of gum—though Seunghyun thinks it should be more to shut out the embarrassment. Ninja? Right.

But the tears blooming at the corners of Jiyong’s eyes and the rigor mortis of Jiyong’s hands clawing in the air—probably too frightened of making the sticky situation stickier—draw a tiny bit of sympathy from the older man.

“Want me to snip—?”

“ _No_.”

That was definitely a sob. Seunghyun blinks down at him.

“I don’t see any other way—”

“Peanut butter,” Jiyong gasps, eyes flying open, more tears leaking out to trail down his temples and into his hair.

“Is there even—?”

“Of course, there’s peanut butter in the house,” Jiyong hisses. “ _You_ live here, remember?”

Seunghyun’s tiny bit of sympathy pops like the bubble gum bubble Jiyong couldn’t blow. But Jiyong just keeps crying and hiccupping, and Seunghyun decides preventing the sticky situation from getting stickier is more pertinent than begrudging his sometimes-dim sometimes-lover.

“Fine, fine, wait here.”

Jiyong’s entire body stiffens when Seunghyun shimmies out from under him, and Seunghyun has to give him some credit when, peering over his shoulder on the way to the kitchen, he sees Jiyong completely rigid as if he’s still lying with a support for his neck. His abs are rather well-developed (like a ninja’s?), after all.

Seunghyun toys with the idea of simply abandoning the other man, but he spots the jar of peanut butter in the pantry far too soon to steel his conscience. And so he returns promptly, lowering himself to the floor beside the couch and Jiyong still quivering atop it.

“I’m pretty sure you can lie down normally, you know.”

He’s also pretty sure that he hears Jiyong suck in a deep breath before obeying. This isn’t exactly heart transplant surgery.

“So, what am I supposed to do now?”

Even through his tears of mortification, Jiyong manages to glare exasperatedly at him.

“This isn’t some huge, bloody operation, hyung,” he bites. “Just rub some of it around the gum.”

And this time Seunghyun takes a deep breath, though to calm his nerves. He almost fails to remind and convince himself that he’s supposed to care about Jiyong. So he does as he’s told, sticking a finger into the untouched peanut butter and gingerly spreading it between the crispy, treated strands. But he’s so amazed the peanut butter does the trick, the gum sliding off Jiyong’s hair with the least bit of effort, that he forgets to be annoyed with the younger man.

“There,” he announces, holding his gum-and-peanut-butter-covered fingers over Jiyong’s tear-and-sweat-soaked face.

But then Jiyong sits up so excitedly, the sticky, messy concoction smears across the bridge of his nose and one of his cheeks. They freeze for a moment, wide and stunned eyes locked, Seunghyun almost apologetic, Jiyong almost affronted. But then they’re laughing, and Seunghyun’s relieved. Maybe Jiyong’s caught on to just how dim he sometimes is.

“Thanks, hyung,” he murmurs, turning in his seat then drawing up and swinging one of his legs over Seunghyun’s head (like a ninja?).

“Of course,” the older man chuckles, rising to his knees and planting his hands flat on the buttery, worn leather on either side of Jiyong’s hips, one of them sliding across the seat, what with the greasy, ground up peanuts still clumped on his fingers.

“I think I’m having déjà vu right now,” Jiyong says, leaning back in feigned innocence then swiping at the peanut butter on his face to look at it curiously.

Seunghyun takes Jiyong’s messy, sticky hand in his own messy, sticky hand, wraps his lips around Jiyong’s messy, sticky fingers. As sweet and creamy as it is, peanut butter definitely won’t do, definitely isn’t like frozen yogurt.

Oh well. They’ve become pros (like ninjas) when it comes to cleaning upholstery.


	6. with Heart-Shaped Bullets...

“You’re such a baby, you know that?”

The jab to Jiyong’s shoulder is even weaker than usual by Seunghyun’s standards. And Jiyong spies side-eyed the older man wiping the tears from his prominent cheekbones.

Two hours or so ago, Seunghyun had stumbled upon a DVD in their living room. It didn’t take long for the two men to establish that one of their last marks—college girls—had probably dropped it on her soul’s way out of her body. Because it definitely isn’t a film they’d normally keep around the condo—a movie obviously made to attract young women, what with the men of various brands of attractiveness gracing the cover in military-wear.

But they were just bored and too lazy to clean up enough to pop it in, Jiyong and Seunghyun cocooned in Jiyong’s blankets and a glass for each of them on either bedside table (ginger vodka with soda water and a splash of sour mix shaken with ice, Jiyong’s recipe).

Two hours or so ago, Seunghyun had entered his rapt, engrossed film-viewing mode, gasping and chuckling and weeping at all the right moments.

Jiyong doesn’t exactly understand. It’s a war movie: of course people are going to die. Seunghyun doesn’t have to _cry_ , especially not the way he’s going about it now, biting his knuckles to stifle his whimpers. Jiyong forgot just how emotional the older man could be.

“Think we should enlist soon?” he throws out casually, watching as the last two soldiers standing exchange wry smiles after impossibly gunning down all their enemies flooding onto the school roof (wasn’t this supposed to be based on a true story, and shouldn’t they be dying right about—oh, yep, there goes the asshole one).

Seunghyun’s exhale just then is the loudest and most sob-like yet. Jiyong almost wants to roll his eyes. But then his hand is filled by Seunghyun’s own hand, and he notes how the older man’s trembling fingers are still wet with the freshest barrage of tears.

What a big baby.

Jiyong almost wants to laugh. But instead, he laces their fingers, gently rubbing circles into Seunghyun’s palm with his thumb as a means of hopefully comforting the other man.

At least Seunghyun’s _his_ big baby.


	7. ...and with Sharpsexers

“That one guy was pretty hot, don’t you think?” Jiyong groans, one arm flung over his eyes, the hand of the other fisting in his duvet. “Pussy of a commander, but his face is nice.”

Seunghyun just snorts thickly (still phlegmy from his two straight hours of excited crying, sad crying, and terrified crying—why he insisted they watch the contextual/historical sob story during the end credits, Jiyong doesn’t know), just works his three fingers deeper into the younger man.

Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing, after all, watching that movie, what with Seunghyun’s kisses being all the sweeter yet fiercer, Seunghyun’s touches being all the more reverent and purposeful.

Like a man on a mission.

Jiyong reaches down his body to shove at Seunghyun’s arm.

“Fuck me now.”

Seunghyun’s heavy-lidded eyes widen briefly, and Jiyong notes how several teardrops still cling to, still glitter from the older man’s eyelashes. He notes how the twang in his chest is stronger than usual even by Jiyong’s standards, staring up into Seunghyun’s swollen, streaky face. But it’s his big baby’s swollen, streaky face, and it’s beautiful—it’s _his_.

So Jiyong snakes his arms around Seunghyun’s neck, locks his ankles at Seunghyun’s lower back, and hoists himself up to brush his lips across the sparkling of nearly-dried tears to murmur,

“Let’s go, love soldier.”

Seunghyun puffs a small laugh into Jiyong’s ear, and Jiyong shivers slightly, then shivers a bit more when Seunghyun extracts his fingers to guide the head of his cock to Jiyong’s entrance.

“I thought you hated the movie,” the older man mumbles even as he slides slowly, deliberately into Jiyong.

Jiyong can’t decide if it’s because he’s less prepped than usual or because Seunghyun hadn’t bothered to slick his length with lube, but like this, Seunghyun feels so much closer, so much more like a part of him. He hopes he isn’t just imagining being able to feel every inch of Seunghyun’s cock filling him up, so full and so—fucking—slow. Even the burn of it, the uncomfortable feeling he thought had already been favorably overcome, is newer, more intense and satisfying. And he thinks,

_This is what Seunghyun feels like._

Jiyong shakes himself mentally, lest he come just _thinking_.

“Don’t hate it,” he gasps. “You underestimate me.”

Balls-deep in Jiyong, Seunghyun pauses to swivel his hips, drawing a long, low moan from Jiyong’s throat— _this is what Seunghyun feels like_.

“Yeah?”

_Can Seunghyun feel me?_

“Yeah, I even—have a favorite line.”

Seunghyun withdraws fractionally before snapping his hips, filling Jiyong up immediately once more.

“What line?”

“The tanks,” Jiyong grits, flexing his thighs and lifting, angling his own hips with the hope of taking Seunghyun even deeper— _can he feel me?_ “The tanks are coming.”

But that’s enough talking, their voices replaced by the slick-sliding of skin and the life-or-death struggle for oxygen.

But even with Seunghyun’s marksmanship, brushing Jiyong’s prostate with every well-aimed thrust, tripping the landmines in Jiyong’s skin with every kiss—even to spots Jiyong never knew were sensitive—obliterating and incinerating Jiyong’s senses and higher thought processes until all he knows is that _this is what Choi fucking Seunghyun feels like and death-by-sex-with-Seunghyun isn’t such a bad way to go, those bitches are missing out_.

—even then, Jiyong manages to thread four words together when Seunghyun’s fingers around his cock pull the trigger on his orgasm—

“The tanks are coming.”


	8. In Which G-Dragon Becomes G-Monkey

"What do I do?"

Seunghyun rolls his eyes freely, hiding conveniently behind the huge piece of plastic wedged onto the bridge of his nose that's serving as sunglasses. He tugs a balled up plastic bag from the pocket of his sweatpants and holds it out.

"You pick it up. Then you throw it away."

Jiyong takes the proffered bag, but he still doesn't seem to understand the concept of cleaning up dog shit.

It's Jiyong's first time walking the Shar-Pei puppy in the nearby park. They've been 'parents' for nearly a month already. And in those few weeks, Jiyong has shrugged off every parental/pet-owner responsibility by sleeping in and/or complaining of a hangover.

'I don't mind being the mommy,' he'd giggled, squeezing Gaho to his chest and wriggling with glee. 'You're bigger anyway, you should be the daddy.'

And Seunghyun had fallen for it, what with the younger man's smile, eyes reduced to slits and gums blaring.

But enough was enough.

"I have to _touch it?_ With my _hand?_ "

Jiyong had been ecstatic to go on a stroll with Seunghyun and Gaho, offering to hold the leash and even going as far as linking arms with the older man because 'when have we ever cared about our images, right, hyung?'

But now that it's come to his rookie poop-scooping, Jiyong looks the very definition of 'scared shitless' as he stares down at the poop-to-be-scooped.

" _No_ , that's what the bag is for," Seunghyun grunts, fingers itching for a cigarette—or the chance to slap Jiyong upside the head.

" 'Ey, ya fuckin' faggots, I like yer fuckin' faggoty poodle."

Jiyong's neck whips around in search of the source of the voice and finds a few teenagers sitting and smoking at one of the stone benches a few yards away.

"What, ya scared of some shit? Don't y'all get off licking it from each other's assholes, huh?"

Seunghyun just rolls his eyes once more, wondering if he should bother to bum a cancer stick—then fuck the punks up, of course.

"He's a Shar-Pei, not a poodle," Jiyong screeches.

And before Seunghyun realizes what's happening, Jiyong bends down with plastic bag in hand, picks up the shit in question, and—flings it at the teenagers. Seunghyun watches in slow motion as the poo strikes one of the kids in the chest. But before he gets a chance to point and laugh, Jiyong's hand is in his, yanking urgently. He peers at Jiyong and finds that the younger man already has Gaho tucked under his arm, prepared to flee.

"C'mon, hyung," he hisses despite his impish (that is, shit-eating) grin. "Gotta make like ninja."

So they do.


	9. I'm Rap Choom TANK

"Oh fuck, yes, just kill me now."

Seunghyun almost wants to pause at Jiyong's words, but he's a bit too preoccupied with fucking the smaller man through the mattress (and maybe even the boxspring). Still, it's a weird thing to shout during sex, considering what they do in their spare time.

But then it's all Jiyong's panting and groaning: kill him now, just fucking kill him right fucking now. Why can't Seunghyun just, you know, fucking fuck him? You know, normal dirty talk. Did watching that movie give Jiyong post-traumatic stress disorder? He didn't seem very engaged by it, despite expressing his attraction to one of the actors.

"Yes, hyung, please, I'm dying."

Sure, there's the 'little death' thing. But with the way Jiyong's writhing, limbs flinging around so haphazardly it's like he has twice as many as usual, Seunghyun's starting to feel very un-sexy.

"Wh—You're _dying?_ "

No, actually, Jiyong's coming, and Seunghyun can't help but let himself fuck into the tight clenching heat and coming himself. And as much as Seunghyun would like to cuddle (Jiyong's already wriggling to get them into position), he grabs Jiyong by both shoulders to separate their bodies.

"What the _fuck_ were you blabbering just now?"

"Huh?" Jiyong yawns, clawing at the space between them fruitlessly with his shorter arms. "Oh that, yeah, didn't I tell you?"

Seunghyun gives in, his arms still too boneless, and lets himself be rolled onto his back so Jiyong can lie halfway over him. Jiyong plants his chin in the middle of his chest, peering up into Seunghyun's nostrils.

"Tell me what?"

He almost wants to laugh when Jiyong answers, Jiyong's jaw bouncing with every word. But then the words sink in—

"Yeah, after watching that movie, I decided to name your cock 'The Tank,' since those things are massive and move really slow but are really dangerous and good at getting the job done."

—and Seunghyun's the one who wants to die.


	10. TOP's Past Lives and Present Addictions

"But you don't even have a _normal_ driver's license," Jiyong mutters, half-annoyed, half-amused.

Seunghyun pops his head out of the driver hatch to find Jiyong hanging and swinging from the main gun sloth-style, gripping his elbows tightly and his ankles locked.

"Yeah, so?" he quips, snatching the sailor hat from Jiyong's head and thereby revealing Jiyong's freshly buzzed and permed head—even upside down, he looks as ridiculous as he does adorable, Seunghyun just makes sure to keep those thoughts to himself.

"So," Jiyong says, releasing the hold of his legs to stand and peer down at the older man wearing Jiyong's hat over his newly buzzed and acid-bleached hair—even with the trial purple dye, he looks as ridiculous as he does sexy, Jiyong just makes sure to keep those thoughts to himself, "how the fuck did you even get this thing?"

Seunghyun hoists himself up out of the belly of the tank and stands as well, the main gun separating their bodies.

"You underestimate my powers of persuasion," is all he says. Then, "And the limitless-ness of my credit cards."

"What the fuck do you even need a tank for?" Jiyong scoffs, absently running a fingertip along the cool, matte metal of the tank gun. "Don't tell me you want to roll into the club with it, because you know how I hate obnoxious shit like that. Remember those guys? And you'll probably just end up killing yourself, or worse, you might kill _me_ —"

Seunghyun just chuckles, propping his elbows on the gun and cradling his chin in one of his palms.

"What?"

"Are you worried about me?"

Jiyong splutters a bit, speechless. And still at a loss, he just takes the hat off Seunghyun's head and replaces it atop his own.

" _No_ ," he says shortly. "You're a big boy, and you've always had a thing for stupid toys and I guess the tank is nothing more than a massive, slow-moving, really dangerous toy—"

Seunghyun just takes Jiyong's jaw in his free hand and pulls the younger man's face down toward him to lick the swell of his bottom lip.

Jiyong splutters a bit more, jerking away and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

Seunghyun just laughs a bit more.

"Don't worry," he says, closing one of his eyes to smirk up at Jiyong, and Jiyong doesn't know if the older man is winking or taking aim. "In another life, I won a war all by myself."


	11. with Childhood Regression and Princess Complexes

“How did you even end up with all these—God—damned— _toys_?” Jiyong whines. “Hyung, you’re in your twenties, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Seunghyun hums absently in answer, too busy lovingly cocooning each Be@rbrick with bubble wrap to correct the younger man in that they’re not _toys_ , but _collectibles_ —and more importantly, that they’re more his babies than Gaho could ever be, that little wrinkly troll-beast-ogre. After all, his Be@rbricks don’t leave hazardous waste in places for Jiyong to find but for Seunghyun to clean up.

No matter how spacious their condo, their ceaseless shopping without ever discarding old, unused, or unwanted possessions has finally caught up to them. The agreement had always been that the fourth and smallest bedroom-turned-walk-in closet would only be used when the closets in their respective bedrooms got too cramped. It’s taken a year or so—a miracle in itself, the amount of stuff they buy—but now even the fourth bedroom is overflowing with suits and hats and jewelry.

So, as the only way to both keep their things and their flat, they’d decided to buy out a public storage space. And that meant packing away whatever takes up the most living space: Seunghyun’s _collectibles_ and Jiyong’s shoes. (‘You only have two feet,’ Seunghyun had grumbled. ‘You don’t need all 188 pairs stinking up the house.’)

Seunghyun doesn’t pay the first couple of pops any mind. It’s when the popping gets into the dozens and scores that he finally raises his eyes to stare at Jiyong sitting across the floor from him. He doesn’t know if he should be annoyed by the fact that Jiyong has messily wrapped a mere four Be@rbricks to his own thirty, or impressed that Jiyong is popping (and thereby wasting) the bubble wrap to some semblance of a beat.

“What?” Jiyong mumbles, pausing in his bubble wrap-popping to squint at Seunghyun when he feels the older man’s despairing glare burning through the top of his head—though it’s probably more because the older man himself paused in the bundling of his Be@rbricks. “It’s fun, okay?”

Seunghyun sighs, yanking the bubble wrap from Jiyong’s hands.

“Can’t you find some way to make yourself useful?”

A single beat passes between them, in which Jiyong simply looks into Seunghyun’s face curiously. Then Jiyong’s crawling across the floor, sending Be@rbricks every which way and popping even more bubble wrap under his hands and knees.

“The fuck—!”

Jiyong ignores Seunghyun’s look (and words) of disgust—he’s seen and heard worse from the other man—and makes himself at home in Seunghyun’s lap. But when he loops his arms around Seunghyun’s waist and leans in to make his mouth very useful, he gets a palm to his face instead. To be precise, there’s a layer of bubble wrap crushed between Seunghyun’s palm and Jiyong’s nose.

“Hyung,” he coughs (maybe those suffocating children warnings are right, after all), jerking back but adamantly staying seated on Seunghyun’s thighs. “I’m _bored_ even with all these toys.”

And this time, Jiyong gets a painful squeeze to his elbow.

“Fuck, fine.”

And for once, Seunghyun isn’t sad to see the back of him—even if the younger man’s departure is accompanied by barefooted tantrum stomping and stage-whispered death threats against Seunghyun and his unborn children.

They’re. Not. Toys.

One peaceful, productive minute passes—albeit with Seunghyun himself occasionally popping the bubble wrap on purpose because, yes, it is fun—before a stream of curses floods the condo, and Seunghyun swears his still-defenseless Be@rbricks rattle against each other. He takes several long meditative breaths before going in search of the probably blown-out-of-proportion problem.

It doesn’t take more than a couple of strides into the living room to discover the problem. And yes, it is blown out of proportion.

“Seung-honey…”

Several more deep breaths later, Seunghyun approaches the seated and teary-eyed Jiyong, crouching beside him wearily.

“My toe—and the luggage—and it _hurts_ —”

It takes every ounce of discipline he doesn’t have, but Seunghyun manages to not roll his eyes.

“Lemme see.”

Jiyong obediently presents his foot, and carefully prodding the digit in question, Seunghyun has to admit that the younger man’s big toe is angrily red and swollen.

“I tripped on the stupid luggage and—and—it’s so painful—”

“Well, there’s nothing I can do about it,” Seunghyun declares. “It’ll have to be chopped off.”

But it can’t be so bad if Jiyong can muster up the attitude to swear a bit more. But Seunghyun just laughs, placing Jiyong’s foot back on the polar bear rug.

“C’mon Ji, what do you want me to do?” he says, turning to the guilty Louis Vuitton cases and smacking one of them. “There, I scolded it. Better?”

Once again exercising the control he doesn’t have, Seunghyun doesn’t mention that Jiyong, being in his twenties himself, is far too old to be making a fuss over stubbed toes. And that the luggage in question, all fourteen of them, are currently housing a mere fraction of Jiyong’s to-be-stored shoes.

“Wait here,” he sighs, when Jiyong’s wide-and-wet-eyed stare doesn’t leave his face. “I’ll get some ice or something.”

But when he stands, Jiyong holds out his foot once more, toes daintily pointed and calf muscles flexing prettily. He knows Seunghyun’s non-collectible-related weaknesses, after all—

“Your mouth. Please?”

—really, _really_ knows Seunghyun’s non-collectible-related weaknesses.

So Seunghyun throws his nonexistent discipline and control out the window and lowers himself onto one knee. He cradles Jiyong’s ankle with both hands for a moment, simply looking into Jiyong’s face curiously. Then slowly, he moves one hand up along Jiyong’s shin, every millimeter from the tips of his fingers to the heel of his palm in contact with Jiyong’s skin so he feels every subtle tensing of muscle, every subtle catch of the sprinkling of hair. And when he reaches Jiyong’s knee, he twirls his wrist, grazing the backs of his knuckles around the bony cap, before ghosting the back of his hand back toward himself along Jiyong’s calf.

“Hyung…”

All his previous irritation eased by the mere feel of Jiyong, Seunghyun just smiles, following the curve of Jiyong’s sole with the nails of his first two fingers feather-light, just smiles a bit more when Jiyong’s toes twitch and curl.

“Tickles,” Jiyong huffs, expression one torn between pouting and grinning.

Seunghyun arches his neck forward, mouth brushing the base of Jiyong’s big toe when he murmurs,

“Sorry, Cinderella.”

Closing and parting his lips, Seunghyun marches them up Jiyong’s toe until they’re nestled around the tip. Seunghyun swirls his tongue around the digit, keeping it soft instead of flexing it into a point like he usually does. And it’s like Jiyong’s foot is a conductor for the shiver that waltzes down his entire body, down his leg, setting off the fragile metatarsal bones and tendons. And a moan wafts through the air from somewhere far away, from Jiyong’s mouth, down Seunghyun’s spine.

A dull thud pulls the shutters on the eyelids Seunghyun doesn’t remember closing, and he finds Jiyong leaning back, resting on his forearms, his fingers twisted in the polar bear fur, his eyelashes fluttering wing-like over his flushed cheeks, and his head against one of the leather cases. Louie Vooey makes pretty sturdy luggage, so Seunghyun hopes Jiyong doesn’t expect him to stick his head into his mouth if a bump forms on his skull.

Still, he can’t help smiling around Jiyong’s toe, now skillfully rubbing the arch of Jiyong’s foot with the flat of his thumb. And he continues to suckle on it for a few moments more before finally drawing it out of his mouth, though not without a final, dry kiss.

“Like I said,” he chuckles, “they’ll have to chop it.”

Jiyong scowls, but he quickly averts his eyes, unusually shy.

“Good thing, too. That way, you’ll only need one side of every pair of all these God damned shoes.”


	12. with Complimentary Wake-Up Calls

Seunghyun doesn’t know what to make of the fourteen missed calls from Jiyong, all of them made within the span of a few minutes. For one thing, it’s only eleven in the morning, and Jiyong never wakes up before eleven, or even before Seunghyun. He also doesn’t know what to make of the single text message:

_Don’t move._

And just as he’s about to shove his hand phone back under his pillow for another couple hours of sleep, a video call comes in. Jiyong’s minimized and digitized grin has Seunghyun on his guard even before Jiyong chirps,

“Okay, don’t kill me.”

“What do you want, Yongie?” Seunghyun groans, rubbing one of his eyes with his knuckles, glaring blearily with the other and hoping Jiyong sees it.

“G’morning to you too, dear,” the younger man says brightly, giving no indication of being aware of Seunghyun’s just-woken tetchiness. “So, I’m gonna end the video call, then ringaling right back and you better answer since I locked you in your room, okay?”

Seunghyun barely registers Jiyong’s words and Jiyong’s backdrop—their own fucking living room—before the video cuts and a regular call has the phone vibrating once more as promised. And Seunghyun promptly answers with a,

“I’m gonna fuck you up, you little shit.”

“Love you too, my little yanggaeng-muncher.”

Seunghyun would say he can hear the laughter in Jiyong’s voice, but it’s more like he can hear Jiyong’s cackling through the walls, the cheery tinkling sound delayed in their phone call so it’s like there are two of the younger man. Seunghyun shudders—one Jiyong is more than enough.

“Why are you like this?” he mutters. “What the fuck are you up to, Ji?”

It takes a few more moments for both Jiyongs’ giggles to taper into silence. Then:

“I want you so bad right now, Seunghyun.”

And Seunghyun would say he can hear the need in Jiyong’s voice, but it’s more like he gets an annoying case of whiplash from Jiyong abruptly adopting a deliciously deep murmur and the audacity to say his given name. Seunghyun yawns audibly.

“You could let me out of my room,” he suggests dryly. “That is, if you actually had the balls to lock me in.”

“I have the balls to fill even that big mouth of yours,” Jiyong continues undeterred. “Is that why you were opening up just now, Seunghyun? Or would you rather have me fuck that big, pretty mouth? I know how much you love the taste of my cock.”

Seunghyun twitches an eyebrow he knows Jiyong can’t see. This is new. What isn’t new is the twitch in his pajama bottoms. Luckily, Jiyong can’t see that either.

“Why are you doing this?”

Unluckily, the gravel in his throat makes it unnecessary for Jiyong to see the state of him.

“I wanted to know if you can get you off with just my voice—”

Somehow, Jiyong’s voice like this—light, honest, warm—drives Seunghyun crazier than when it was dark and lusty. And Jiyong seems to catch on (he’d have to be morbidly stupid not to, Seunghyun moans so loud), when he keeps it:

“—since you know I could come just listening to you talk, hyung—”

“No,” Seunghyun rasps. “My name. Use my name.”

It’s okay if he gives permission, after all.

“—your fucking voice, Seunghyun, you don’t even know what it does to me,” Jiyong confesses in a rush. “When you ordered fucking jajangmyun delivery the other night, I didn’t run away so I wouldn’t have to pay, I went to fucking jerk myself off, hearing you fucking ask for two fucking orders of mandoo.”

Seunghyun chuckles even as he slips a hand into his pajamas, palming the head of his cock in time for Jiyong to whimper into the phone.

“Fuck, Seunghyun, that laugh— _your laugh_ —why do you think I always cross my legs when you start telling your shitty jokes?”

Seunghyun’s never noticed, but he also didn’t know Jiyong thinks his jokes are shitty, so he figures they’re even.

“And the way you fucking look at me sometimes, even when you’re just—I don’t know, washing the God damned dishes or something, and it’s like I can hear—”

“Ji…”

“— _yes_ , fuck, that—the way you say my name, I can hear it in your eyes and—”

Seunghyun almost wants to remind Jiyong that he’s mixing up sensory organs and that synesthesia is a very serious, debilitating disease and he should probably get himself checked out, but it doesn’t help that Seunghyun’s starting to think that he can taste the way Jiyong sounds. Or something like that.

“—it’s like you want me to lift my skirt and bend over like some slutty private school girl and I don’t even give a shit because if I were wearing a plaid skirt I wouldn’t even wear panties, your eyes and your voice would have them so fucking soaked all the time and you know I hate doing laundry—”

Seunghyun’s so confused, what with the way he’s crushing his phone so hard to his face with one hand and pumping his cock so fast with the other, what with the way it sounds like there are two Jiyongs running through their condo, one set of feet making the floor shake and the other pounding against his eardrum. But he’s not so disoriented he doesn’t realize what it means. So, risking breaking his neck, he topples out of bed and meets Jiyong at his door in time to hear the younger man fumbling with the knob from the other side.

“Hurry the fuck up, you little shit,” he growls, stripping out of his sleep clothes.

The door finally swings open, so forcefully it rebounds off the wall. But it’s nothing compared to Jiyong barreling into Seunghyun, already naked himself.

Seunghyun could get used to mornings like this.


	13. with Broken Rules of Engagement

“So that’s the one?”

“Kinda hard to miss with that stupid mohawk.”

Jiyong’s snort switches midway into a gurgle when Seunghyun, untangling his wig from the clasp of his necklace, takes the inopportune initiative of pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his nape.

“Moan any lower, Ji, and I’m sure even the 90-year-old granny over there will figure out you’re in drag,” the older man chuckles, his breath hot and ethanol-sweet as it ghosts across Jiyong’s ear and cheek.

Jiyong turns on his heel to face the other man, glare (and blush) already in place.

“Then quit thinking like a programmed armored vehicle when we’re supposed to be working.”

The younger man is nervous, and Seunghyun can tell. Not because he’s been forced to don women’s clothing (and accessories and makeup and shoes and 100% human hair extensions) yet again, but because for once they are literally on the job. It’s their first time ever being commissioned for a hit-kill. So maybe Jiyong’s more nervous from the fact that they obviously haven’t been quite as careful as they’d thought. Still, it may also be the fact that the person who’d sought their services is the fiercest ahjumma either of them has ever had the misfortune to meet. And Jiyong has already gotten them on her bad side.

‘Bit smaller than I expected coming from you,’ Jiyong had said, peeking into the envelope the ahjumma had seconds ago thrown onto the coffee table separating them.

Seunghyun could hear the smirk in his voice, and he would’ve crushed Jiyong’s toes to make him shut up, but he’d been too busy laughing internally at the woman’s look of disgust.

‘Or is this a monthly installment?’

Seunghyun’s tiny half-laugh half-cough had been completely drowned out by the fearsome lady’s outburst:

‘You playing around with me? You saying the amount I’m giving is too small for _you_? You’re messing with the wrong person. I know how it goes. I know you’re both dirty beggars, the _things_ you do, but have you no shame? You take the money then do as I say, hwengh!’

Their terrified departure, envelope of forty-million won nevertheless crushed in Jiyong’s fist, had been capped off with a sinister hissing noise.

“You’d think she’d know better than to wear white on the bride’s big day,” Seunghyun chuckles, nodding in the direction of their employer at the opposite end of the banquet hall taking family photos, then reaching around Jiyong for another champagne flute, heel of his hand not-so-subtly grazing Jiyong’s ass.

“I will bitchslap you and not even feel bad about it,” Jiyong says, voice and smile dangerously saccharine and glittery.

Seunghyun takes a sip to conceal his grin and immediately grimaces—cheap champagne doesn’t get any better the seventh time around, and why cheap champagne’s within twenty miles of a socialite wedding reception, he doesn’t even know.

“Is forty-mill how much a human life costs these days?” Jiyong murmurs, peering over his own glass of cheap bubbly at their target before answering his own question. “Guess it’s more like forty-mill is how much a human death costs.”

They rarely share awkward silences. Then again, Jiyong is rarely so pensive.

But Jiyong forestalls any lame, fumbled comment Seunghyun can make and simply links their arms loosely, slowly leading him toward the lonely man with a mohawk leaning against one of the pillars and watching the self-indulgent picture-taking. The closer they get, the more evident the longing and regret in the man’s ashen face becomes.

“Guy looks harmless to me,” Seunghyun manages apologetically. “I mean, the girl’s already her daughter-in-law. Not much he can do now even if they’re best friends.”

But according to the beastly ahjumma, his erasure is a necessary one.

“Your piano playing was beautiful,” Seunghyun says, startling their mark enough he literally jumps.

“Oh, yeah, that.”

Jiyong chimes in with, “If I’m not mistaken, it was an original piece, yes?”

The man’s eyes, by some physical impossibility, grow three times wider, and for a moment, Seunghyun’s afraid Jiyong’s been found out. But then his impossibly large eyes rake down the entire length of Jiyong’s form and, judging by the way the younger man stiffens beside him, Seunghyun knows that Jiyong knows that he is being not-so-subtly physically appraised.

Seunghyun can’t decide if he wants to laugh or change his opinion of the man’s harmlessness. Instead, he clears his throat.

“Choi Dongwook,” he says, not-so-subtly deepening his voice, and when he offers his hand he not-so-subtly crushes the man’s noticeably smaller one. “My _fiancé_ and I were wondering if you’d be interested in playing at our ceremony as well.”

Jiyong (by some physical impossibility) stiffens even more. At least he has the decency to play along.

“Lee Jiyeon,” he simpers, holding out only the tips of his fingers for the man to grasp, meanwhile deftly turning his other wrist so as to hide his bare ring finger. “And, yes, that.”

It’s easy, quick work, ‘Jiyeon’ excusing herself to powder her nose or some other lesser-sex ritual but instead luring away the hotel part-timer from the coat check desk in time for ‘Dongwook’ to lead the man (Dong Youngbae, but his name is irrelevant) there under the pretense of retrieving his business card but instead delivering a sharp two-fingered jab to his jugular.

“Fuck, this guy’s even smaller than I am,” Jiyong mutters, holding up the man’s dress shirt and pants. “Get my zipper, will you?”

Seunghyun stands and dusts his hands off from rolling the newly-stripped body under the forest of mink and sable fur coats, finding Jiyong with his back to him, one hand holding the length of the wig to the side to expose the zipper of his gown—and his smooth, pale nape and shoulder blades. But it isn’t until Jiyong turns to him, chin hooked over his shoulder, that Seunghyun moves up behind him, fingers of one hand splayed in the middle of his lower back, fingers of the other wrapping around his bicep.

“ _Hyung_ —”

“But I love you like this,” he mouths against Jiyong’s temple, the younger man having already removed his heels.

Jiyong makes to pull away from him, but Seunghyun just squeezes Jiyong’s arm slightly and drops his other hand to graze up Jiyong’s thigh, hiking up the silk fabric.

“Fucking pervert—”

So Jiyong says, but there’s no denying the sudden breathiness of his voice, the sudden tightness of his dress.

“We don’t—have time for your—weird kinks, damn it—”

But there’s no denying that Jiyong’s saying one thing and doing another, his head falling back on Seunghyun’s shoulder in silent invitation for the older man’s trekking lips, reaching around himself and blindly scrabbling at the button and fly of Seunghyun’s tented trousers.

“You know as well as I do, Yongie,” Seunghyun murmurs, tonguing the rapid pulsing of Jiyong’s jugular while gathering the silk around Jiyong’s waist, “that I can get you off in ten minutes.”

Jiyong’s groan resonates through his back, through Seunghyun’s chest, when the older man skims his fingertips along the underside of Jiyong’s cock, pausing only to palm the already weeping head before fisting Jiyong’s entire length, backs of his knuckles teasingly kneading Jiyong’s balls with every downstroke.

Seunghyun doesn’t know how he does it, but even through his shuddering and moaning and struggling to turn around to ‘let me fucking kiss you, hyung,’ Jiyong manages to get Seunghyun’s pants and boxer briefs off so they’re bunched at his knees. Seunghyun knows he’s probably enjoying the smaller man’s frustration a bit too much.

They rarely share awkward silences. But one minute and forty-four seconds later Jiyong proves Seunghyun more than perfectly correct, two minutes and nine seconds later they both realize Jiyong just ruined one of Seunghyun’s favorite pairs of Ferragamo lace-ups, and two minutes and thirteen seconds later Jiyong drops to his knees and starts mopping up his mess with the hem of his gown.

“It goes without saying,” Seunghyun grunts, “the replacements are coming out of your share of the forty million.”

Jiyong mutters something about silk friction while keeping his head down with the pretense of concentrating of buttoning up the borrowed-and-never-to-be-returned dress shirt. Jiyong doesn’t know why he does it, probably just to keep himself occupied in his shame, but he feels around in the shorter (and deader) man’s trouser pocket. Jiyong gauges with his fingernail: round cut, point-six, point-nine, one, one-point-four carats.

Maybe he won’t have to dip into his half after all.


End file.
